


Home on the Range

by SadakoTetsuwan



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Cows, Cute, Domestic, Headcanon, Horses, Life Partners, M/M, Rating May Change, Vacation, tons of background OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadakoTetsuwan/pseuds/SadakoTetsuwan
Summary: When Jesse elects to take his leave apart from Hanzo, the archer is both slighted and intrigued, and invites himself along for a distinctly McCree vacation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So while writing Red Horse, Blue Dragon, I obviously had a strong need for happy stuff--I ended up starting a whole bunch of other fics rather than finishing it, since even I can only take so many sads at once. So instead of just writing about sad things on the ranch, I wrote something cute to show Hanzo's first visit.
> 
> If you have been reading The Deadeye Chronicles and wish there was more McHanzo in it, don't worry, I got you--while there won't be any shipping in those stories proper, there will be plenty of stuff like this which takes place in a glorious McHanzo-filled Deadeye AU.

“Sure am glad you came out here with me,” McCree said for the third time since leaving the airport. Hanzo sighed, rolling his eyes beneath his closed lids as the car zipped down the road, untroubled by cracks in the aging pavement. Normally, Jesse was happy to accompany him to his favorite places around Japan, but when he found out that McCree had already made his vacation request months ago and was unwilling to budge, Hanzo was intrigued. But here they were, driving down an empty stretch of highway in the flattest place he’d ever seen. It wasn’t the sort of exciting vacation he’d imagined McCree would take on his own. The trip had barely started, and he was already disappointed.

“So…this is your home,” Hanzo remarked, cracking one eye open and watching the dry grass and mesquite bushes pass by between the highway and the access road to the side. Every now and then, a gate would appear—low and wide and bright white against the red earth, with no house in sight. The flatlands were surprisingly stark, though the slowly sinking sun painted everything a pleasant red and gold.

“Yes sir,” McCree smiled. “Texan born and bred. Not that I don’t like travelin’ all over, but sometimes, y’ get a touch homesick, ain’tcha?” he asked, his language slipping farther and farther toward his roots as they drove farther from Amarillo.

“I suppose,” Hanzo replied, his gaze scanning the horizon. A hazy suggestion of mountains and hills burned in the distance, swallowed by the power of the setting Texas sun. Big black grasshopper pumps sleepily nodded in the distance, and the rusted wrecks of Bastion units poked up closer to the road, many strung up in threatening postures or deliberately smashed up, though none of the displays seemed recently built—not that it made seeing a rusted Omnic head hanging from a noose any less disturbing. Hanzo’s eye was drawn to the macabre sight; McCree stared straight ahead with great focus.

“We’ll have a couple weeks out here…Hopefully, there’s enough work t’ keep you from gettin’ too bored,” McCree remarked with a knowing smirk, the car slowing and turning off down a dusty county road.

“Work?” Hanzo replied, sitting up slightly, “This is supposed to be a vacation.”

“It is. A vacation from everyday work,” McCree chuckled. “Hardly have t’ shoot any Talon agents on a ranch. Jes’ coyotes and such.”

Hanzo’s gaze flicked across the landscape as the hovercar slid across the scrubby ground, catching sight of another fast-approaching gate—tall and dark with age, bearing scars from the Omnic Crisis that would never be totally healed.

The buildings beyond the old gate were rustic, yet new and screamed ‘traditional functionality’. The main house was squat and sturdy and seemed to spread out like a ring of mushrooms, with a wide wraparound porch that Hanzo found quaintly familiar. The evening light gilded the house like a dream, the rain barrels were already mostly filled after the early autumn storms, and the warm light from inside made it seem quite inviting. It seemed almost stereotypical—much the way Hanamura seemed stereotypical, he presumed—but it also seemed perfectly apropos. At least it did with McCree there, his spurs jingling loudly as he climbed out of the car and strode up to the porch.

“Howdy, Lee,” McCree called, tipping his hat to the man standing there. He was tall and lanky and he, too, looked as perfect as one could expect in such a setting, his jeans faded and dusty and his hat pulled low over his eyes against the glare of the sunset.

“Howdy, ‘Mr. Holden’,” the man replied, chuckling as he held out his hand to shake. Even at a distance, it was clear both men were trying to grip one another’s hands as hard as they could, though their smiles were good-natured.

“How’s things?”

“Doin’ alright. This year’s calves is gettin’ a might big, ‘n we got ourselves ‘bout 20 springers in the barn, should be calvin’ any minute now.”

“Heh, always a couple’a late bloomers, ain’t there?” McCree remarked. “Ain’t so bad, though—gotta keep growin’ the herd.”

“S’what I figured, sir,” Lee nodded, the action looking quite sharp thanks to the rather severe curves of his white hat.

“’Ey, Hanzo, c’mere,” McCree called, waving the shorter man over. “This here’s Lee, my ranch manager,” he said, gesturing toward the other cowboy. “Lee’s daddy worked on the ranch, too, back in th’ day. Lee, this is my partner, Hanzo.”

“Business pardner, or _pardner_ pardner?” Lee asked with a relaxed chuckle, brushing his hand off on his jeans before holding it out to a stranger. Hanzo shook it with some trepidation—his hand certainly didn’t look any cleaner.

“Bit ‘o both. Dangerous, I know,” McCree winked. “He’s on the paperwork as Keisuke Shimogawa.”

“I’s wondedin’ who that was,” Lee smiled. “Or if’n he was real ‘t’all. Mr. Holden sure has plenty o’ mysterious dealin’s, don’t he?”

“Sure does,” McCree winked. “Been a long trip, thinkin’ we oughta get settled in n’ rest up ‘fore tomorrow. Go on n’ get me if calvin’ starts—hate to miss it twice in one year.”

“Yessir,” Lee nodded. “Got plenty t’ talk about t’morrow, even if we ain’t got calves.” With that, he tipped his hat and headed for the barn, the soft lowing of the cows in the distance drifting across the yard.

“Did you really put my name to all of this?” Hanzo asked, looking around and trying not to look with the judgmental eye he'd had before. The land may have been sparse, but if it was a real ranch, there would be lots of it—and the buildings, though crafted to look old-fashioned, were state-of-the-art. Clearly, there had been quite an investment here. Jesse was serious.

“Sure did. It’s the family business,” McCree smiled, giving Hanzo's shoulder a little squeeze. It had occurred to him that he might have to eventually clue Hanzo in to the fact that he had put him down as a full partner in the ranch and all of the property he’d been accruing, to tell him they had a place to retire to when their Overwatch days were good and done, but a good moment to break the news hadn’t come up. The cat was out of the bag now, though.

“The _McCree_ family business,” Hanzo replied, feeling extraordinarily out of place.

“Ain’t I a Shimada when we visit Japan?”

“W-well, yes,” Hanzo began, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

“Then here i Texas, you’re a McCree. And McCree’s’ve got stake in the ranch,” McCree smirked, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “‘Sides, look at it. ‘S only been two years, an’ we’re getting close to turning a profit. ‘Course, that’s helped along by natural gas wells an’ solar farmin’ while we build up the herd and re-establish old sales connections, but we’re both ‘businessmen’ at the end o’ the day, ain’t we? Profit’s profit.”

“Now you’re beginning to sound like ‘Dallas Holden’ again,” Hanzo smirked.

“Good reason for that, darlin’,” McCree chuckled, leading Hanzo toward the house. For some reason, 'billionaire oil baron and real estate mogul' had always been his favorite covert identity.

“And I can’t believe you put _those_ names on the deed.”

“Well, Jesse McCree an’ Hanzo Shimada are both on all sortsa watchlists and Most Wanted lists—can’t exactly have a nice vacation or manage a family-run business like that, can we?” McCree smiled.

“At least not a legitimate one,” Hanzo replied, chuckling.

“Good point,” he laughed, his boots heavy against the porch. “C’mon. Let me show you where I grew up,” McCree smiled, his expression wistful. “Or at least close to—ain't a stick in this place what's original. Had t' get it all rebuilt from scratch, from what ol' blueprints I could track down.”

“I am sorry for what you lost,” Hanzo murmured, pausing at the door to toe off his outdoor soles, sliding back the locks and stepping out of the weak magnets that remained.

“‘S alright. Lost it long enough ago, the wound ain’t fresh no more,” McCree murmured, his gaze falling for a moment. It may have scarred over, but the wound was certainly still tender—and much of the rest of the panhandle hadn’t healed yet. “…Jes’ hope everything inside’s up t’ snuff—didn’t get a chance to give it a once-over ‘fore y’ came.”

“I am sure it will be adequate,” Hanzo smirked. If things weren't prepared for a simple vacation after two years, the solution was simple—'deal' with the contractors.

Stepping into the house felt like stepping back in time. The décor lacked the personal touch that came from a family living in it, but the spirit of the place had happily returned to the homestead. McCree half expected to hear his mother’s voice telling him to set the table for twelve. Just like he remembered, a long wooden table big enough for all the hands on the ranch filled the dining room—though it had been cleared a little while before. The chef was busy cleaning up the kitchen, the tall stack of dirtied plates next to the sink matched only by the rack full of clean dishes drying on the other side.

“Evening, sir,” the chef smiled, running a soapy plate under the tap. “Sorry, y’all missed supper by ‘bout half an hour. If y’want, I could whip somethin’ up for ya…”

“Somethin’ simple’d be alright,” McCree replied. “Don’t go too far outta yer way, though.”

If this was a simple meal, Hanzo wanted to know what a serious effort looked like. The plates were piled high with barbequed ribs, mashed potatoes and dark gravy, green beans with thick cuts of bacon mixed in, a dish of sweet corn with a pat of pale butter melting into it, biscuits with a heavy crumb which McCree immediately softened up with butter and honey, and two glasses of sweet tea, with lemon wedges poked down below the ice.

“Are you supposed to eat all of this?” Hanzo asked, cautiously reaching for a knife and fork.

“Yessir, though normally we'd have potato salad, too,” McCree smiled, effortlessly managing to get a bite of everything on his fork every time he raised it. “It’s rich, so y’ might wanna take it slow.”

“…Where do I begin?” Hanzo asked. In Japan, one took a bite of each dish in turn—but there was only the one plate in front of him with no clear order outlined.

“Ribs’s awful good—I’d start there,” McCree smiled, swiping a bit of barbecue sauce up with his pinky and licking it off, clearly savoring it. “My compliments to the chef, that’s a mighty fine sauce y’ mixed up there,” he called back to the kitchen.

“It’s the drippin’s,” Chef called back, “An’ a little coffee grounds.” McCree let out a low whistle, happily digging into his rack of ribs in the traditional, hands-on manner. Hanzo simply stared for a moment; he refused to use his hands to eat. The moment he stuck his fork into the meat, however, it slid from the bone effortlessly, juicy and tender. He wasn’t sure what ‘drippins’ were, or how coffee figured into the flavor exploding across his tongue, but two things were clear: one, this was the most American food he’d ever eaten, and two, it was absolutely delicious. The sauce was spicy and dark, not nearly as sweet as the sauces he was used to, and it seemed to have soaked through the meat to the bone. To his chagrin, however, it also seemed to drip off of the meat with alarming regularity—something else he was unused to.

“Clean up with a biscuit,” McCree directed, mopping up the edge of his plate with a piece of roll he’d torn off and popping it in his mouth.

“If you insist,” Hanzo replied, instead avoiding the problem by moving on to the sides. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Corn. Ribs. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Corn. Ribs.

“Y’ can jes’ mix ‘em together,” McCree replied. “Never liked green beans in my ‘taters, but some folks do.”

“Thank you,” Hanzo replied dryly, continuing to eat in shifts around the plate. McCree chuckled, shaking his head.

“You n’ Genji taught me to eat the Japanese way—we’ll have you eatin’ like a ranch hand ‘fore we leave,” McCree grinned, scooping up corn and potatoes with practiced skill.

 

 

McCree happily dropped the suitcases near the door to the bedroom, a sly grin on his lips. “Now this is what I’ve been wantin’ t’ show you since we got here,” he chuckled, beckoning Hanzo inside.

Hanzo rolled his eyes, but followed with a small smile. To be honest, he’d been wanting to see the bedroom, as well. His legs were getting a bit sore after spending so long on his prosthetics, and he wanted a shower and a warm bed more than almost anything. He wasn’t sure why he expected to be able to get those things out in the sticks, however.

There was a heavy flop from inside the room, and as Hanzo rounded the corner, he spied the culprit.

McCree laid on his side on a large bed, patting the comforter next to him and grinning. “C’mere, doll,” he purred, his eyes glinting with boyish delight. Hanzo sighed, but his smile grew at the sight of his cowboy. Since they’d arrived, McCree had been absolutely glowing with happiness…it was enough to warm even his heart. Hanzo perched on the edge of the bed, his ankles crossed politely as he gazed down at McCree.

“Yes?”

McCree chuckled again, seizing Hanzo around the waist and dragging him down onto the bed. Hanzo couldn’t help himself—a soft giggle left him, his cheeks warming slightly as the sound of his own laughter met his ears.

“Hey there,” McCree grinned, leaning down and placing an almost chaste kiss on Hanzo’s cheek.

“Jesse,” he chuckled, squirming slightly as McCree nuzzled at him like an overexcited dog, his beard tickling the delicate skin at the crook of Hanzo’s jaw.

“This here’s a brand new bed,” he purred; Hanzo could _feel_ him grinning. “Wanna put some miles on it?”

“It won’t bother anyone?” Hanzo asked. He was always something of a private man, and for all of the flirting and joking he permitted McCree, he preferred to show his affections without an audience.

“There’s still two or three solid hours of work t’ be done,” McCree replied, swinging a leg over Hanzo and grinning down at him, “Anybody who’d hear us ought not be here anyway.” Hanzo let out a low chuckle in response, his eyes drifting hungrily down the tight line of his jeans. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

“Are—Are you wearing your boots in bed?!” he cried, only a lingering hint of laughter in his voice.

“Yeah, maybe,” McCree replied, glancing back at his feet, indeed still snug in their boots.

“Ugh! Take them off, you’re disgusting!” Hanzo laughed, shoving McCree off of him. The cowboy didn’t complain, hurriedly tugging off one boot.

“What ‘bout you?” he asked, glancing down at Hanzo’s titanium legs.

“I left my outdoor soles by the door, where they belong,” he smirked, flexing his ‘bare’ feet.

“Guess y’ain’t gotta worry ‘bout scorpions with those, huh?” McCree mused, his spurs jangling as his boots hit the floor.

“Scorpions?”

“Yep. Number one reason we wear our shoes inside ‘round these parts,” McCree explained. He’d been out of Texas for years, but he still shook out his boots before putting them on. Old habits die hard, and good ones should always be practiced—even if the scorpion population in Switzerland and Russia is statistically zero. He quickly rolled back onto the bed, covering Hanzo’s body with his own. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I’ll protect you,” he purred.

“You’re ridiculous,” Hanzo chuckled, leaning up and carding his fingers through thick brown hair, an affectionate smile on his face in spite of his insults. McCree knew how to take it in stride. He reached up and carefully untied Hanzo’s topknot, letting the silk tie spill over his metal fingers. It was an odd sensation, silk on steel, though it still felt just as cool to the touch as it did to his flesh and bone hand.

“You’re beautiful,” McCree replied, smiling as Hanzo’s hair fell to his shoulders, framing his elegant face. The other man’s face warmed softly at Jesse’s compliment, the way it always did. That soft dusting of pink across his cheeks was just about the prettiest thing McCree had ever seen—and he never missed a chance to remind Hanzo of that. After all that he’d been through, how could he be so lucky…? For someone like him to woo a prince like Hanzo… He leaned down and tenderly brushed his lips against Hanzo’s brow, peppering him with soft kisses and earning another soft, embarrassed chuckle.

“Jesse,” Hanzo breathed, his hands running over the cowboy’s shoulders, down his back, tracing along his belt, slipping into his back pocket playfully… “Make love to me. Now.”

“Yessir,” McCree grinned, leaning in for a hungrier kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter contains a cow giving birth. (Hanzo didn't get that warning, so you've got the upper hand here.)

3:58 AM.

The house was quiet, everything having long since popped and creaked as it cooled in the night. Even the crescent moon had barely begun to peek its horns over the eastern horizon, the whole landscape swallowed in velvety black. The two men slept peacefully, tangled in one another’s arms, with feet and legs poking out from under the blankets and quilts for comfort’s sake.

A hurried knock came at the bedroom door. McCree sat up groggily as it swung open, squinting at the silhouette of a cowboy against the light in the hall.

“Calves?” he asked.

“Calves,” Lee replied, his excitement barely contained.

  


Even with the jet lag, Hanzo grudgingly rose before the sun. The cool morning air helped clear any distractions from the mind when meditating, and the gentle caress of the morning sun was always a welcome reward. He was somewhat surprised to find the bed empty, apparently for some time, given the cool spot which Jesse should have been occupying.

He performed his usual morning rituals with a lingering air of confusion, massaging his limbs before reattaching his legs, trimming his beard with exact precision, dressing out of the suitcase (and, after a moment, migrating the contents of both suitcases into the dresser), checking for scorpions after having already moved everything, shuddering slightly at _needing_ to check for scorpions...

If Jesse could survive in arthropod hell, so could he. He’d grown up with _mukade_ , after all.

‘...What if there are _mukade_ here, too?’

“ _Namu Amida Butsu_ ,” he whispered under his breath at the thought. He attempted to banish the idea of of that many-legged parade of nightmares before anything else could scuttle into his mind—at this rate, he was going to need every Buddha.

The sun was peeking over the horizon, sending a dream-like glow through the morning mist as Hanzo knelt on the dewy front porch, his hands relaxed and draped together, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he meditated. As the land slowly began to warm, his keen ears pricked up at the sound of a quiet slide across the hardpan. He allowed his eyes to slide open just far enough to see a thick black serpent slithering out from under the porch, chewing on something; a wicked stinger hung out of its mouth. Hanzo smirked.

“Feast, my friend,” he murmured softly, watching as it slithered out into the brush. Other movement caught his gaze through the mist as well; there seemed to be quite a commotion in the barn. Jesse and Lee had mentioned something about calves…

He rose elegantly from his place, stepping into his outdoor soles and sliding the locks into position. He wiggled his feet and rose up on his toes in a languid stretch, the fine mesh of his soles flexing with his foot and firming up and gaining texture where needed—the wonders of electroactive engineering had been an incredible boon to both Shimada brothers. He strode across the yard, his curiosity piqued. The shadows inside the barn shifted, occasionally catching light either from the morning sun or the lanterns inside.

A cow bawled in distress from somewhere inside and Hanzo slipped through the door, edging carefully around the livestock. A few cows stood in the corner of stalls, licking at skinny black calves, others stood and shifted uncomfortably, lowing softly as cowboys shifted in between them with intimidating-looking contraptions.

“What is going on?” Hanzo asked, looking at the chains hanging off of what looked to be a _sasumata_.

“We’re pullin’ calves. Wanna help?” one of the cowboys asked, earning a snicker from another, giving Hanzo’s fine silk a once-over. Hanzo frowned at the little laugh, his gaze narrowing.

“‘Got ‘im right-way up!” he heard Jesse call. Hanzo fell in behind the cowboys at the announcement, since they seemed to be leading him in the right direction.

Jesse was kneeling on the ground behind a prone cow, both of his arms inside of the cow’s vulva, his shirt and upper arms covered in bloody mucus as he felt around, apparently searching for something. He slowly began to pull, apologizing softly to the cow about his cold arm as he shifted back, his hands emerging with a pair of hooves in his grasp.

“C’mon, let’s git ‘im outta there,” he urged, quickly looping a pair of short chains around the hooves and reaching back in to make sure the head was positioned correctly after all the twisting and contortions the poor calf had already been through. His head whipped around as he heard raucous laughter, quickly glancing down to see if his pants had ripped. “What? What’s so funny?”

“That boyfriend of yers,” another cowboy laughed, leaning against a stall gate, “Done lit right outta here!”

“Ain’t got no stomach fer calf-pullin’, I guess,” Lee chuckled, watching as Hanzo dodged between cows and managed to clear the door of the barn without retching.

“Aww, lay off ‘im,” McCree said, though he couldn’t help but chuckle as well as he turned back to the task at hand, “He’s a genteel sort,” he added, grunting softly as he pulled the front half of the calf free.

“City folk,” another cowboy scoffed, clearing the mucus from the calf’s nose and mouth without any apparent concern for his own cleanliness. “Don’t belong on a ranch.”

“That ain’t fair, Eli,” McCree frowned, standing to pull and letting out a little triumphant whoop as the calf schloorped to the ground. “Give me a few weeks, I’ll make a cowpoke outta him yet.”

 

Hanzo sat in silence as the cowboys settled into their breakfast. They all seemed ravenous; most had already been working for almost three hours before eating. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, ham steaks, pancakes which everyone kept calling ‘flapjacks’, waffles, hash browns, huevos rancheros, fresh sausages, and mugs of black coffee all disappeared with little initial conversation, the discussion starting to pick up around the time plates began to get passed around for seconds.

“You’re taking two showers tonight, Jesse,” Hanzo muttered, shooting the cowboy a sidelong glare.

“Aww, c’mon darlin’, I already hosed down,” McCree smiled, examining his arm and wiggling his metal fingers. “Calvin’s messy business, can’t help that.”

“It was disgusting,” Hanzo replied, shuddering. McCree sighed patiently, patting Hanzo’s arm and keeping a straight face even as the other man tensed at the ‘unclean’ touch.

“I know it ain’t what yer used to...that’s why I didn’t invite you t’ come along. That, an’ I didn’t think you’d appreciate bein’ woke up at 4 AM fer that,” he added, smiling.

“Do you not have veterinarians to perform such duties?” Hanzo asked, glancing down the table, “Can you not order one of them to do…all of that?”

“That ain’t what runnin’ a ranch is about,” McCree frowned, “It’s a hands-on business. Told ya there’d be work, I can’t jes’ pass it off.”

“I did not come here with you to do such work,” Hanzo frowned, sliding his plate and chair away a little bit. “I invited you to take your leave with me. This was not my idea.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Hanzo,” McCree began, his voice and expression outwardly pleasant, but bearing the edge that Southern gentlefolk had skillfully sharpened for centuries, “But invitin’ yerself along on _my_ vacation _was_ yer idea. Y’ can’t say I didn’t try t’ warn y’ off, neither.”

“You did not tell me that...that cow birthing would be a feature of this vacation!” Hanzo replied, his ears burning as he became aware of how quiet the table was starting to grow.

“Yeah, n’ you didn’t tell me none about _natto_ ,” McCree fired back as pleasantly as he could, turning back to his eggs. “Don’t see what yer so upset about, darlin’, I ain’t makin’ you pull calves. I let you sleep in, even.”

“I thank your gracious Lordship for such favor,” Hanzo muttered darkly, “This servant is not worthy.”

“Save them fightin’ words fer outside,” McCree growled in response, though he quickly tempered his response. The fact that Hanzo was slipping on his more combative mask rubbed him the wrong way, but someone had to give. He sighed into his eggs, hoping that would be the end of it for now. He didn’t want to have a fight at the breakfast table—Papa had always just gone the ‘Yes Dear’ route in situations like this, and he already regretted not doing the same.

Slowly, the conversations along the table began to pick up again, and McCree could feel some of the tension evaporate between himself and his lover as attention left them.

“...At least the scorpions should no longer be a problem,” Hanzo remarked softly.

“How’s that?” McCree asked, glancing over at him.

“I saw a snake eating one this morning.” McCree raised a brow and his gaze flicked along the table for a moment.

“Snakes, huh?” he asked, “Y’know what kind?” he continued, his tone careful.

“I am not familiar with your Texas snakes,” Hanzo replied, “But it was black, and very large.” He continued eating a bite of each of his breakfast foods in turn for a few moments before realizing McCree had gone quiet. “...What is wrong now?”

“Thank y’ kindly, Hanzo,” McCree said, standing up after a moment. “Alright, y’all, listen careful,” he called, “We got Indigoes on the ranch. Now where there’s Indigoes, there must be rattlers, so watch yer step. Double check the pens, the stalls, everything. It’s breedin’ time, so they’ll be doubly pissy. If’n y’ kill a rattler, remember, y’all can’t keep none of it, outta respect fer John,” he added, gesturing toward one of the older cowboys at the table. “I don’t care if y’all take it in t’ Amarillo to get it made into a belt or whatnot, but it ain’t stayin’ on the ranch, y’hear?” There were a few grumbles, but everyone nodded in agreement. “An’ if y’all see an Indigo, fer God’s sake, let it go.”

“It’s a might strange fer an Indigo t’ come this far north, ain’t it?” Lee mused, looking from McCree to John. “I only ever seen ‘em out south on drives.”

“I ain’t never seen one on the ranch when I was a kid,” McCree replied, sitting down again, “But the weather’s been warm, an’ we had a wet year.”

“If there are Indigoes here, they are here for a reason,” John said simply, though his tone was uncertain.

“Better Indigoes than rattlers,” Eli added, spearing a sausage.

“They scare the herd jes’ the same,” another cowboy muttered.

“We got rattlers scarin’ the herd every year,” McCree said, “An’ while I don’t want ‘em scared, I want ‘em dead even less. I’m glad to hear we got Indigoes, and I’ll be even gladder when they move on.”

 

“ _Red Horse_ ,” John called, sidling over to McCree as the day wound down, standing back as he watched McCree and several other ranch hands scrub at their arms with a bar of yellowish soap around a basin of murky sudsy water.

“ _Yes?_ ” he replied after a moment, the Apache word heavy in his mouth. John smiled, waving his hand casually.

“I don’t know if I should cut you a break, or test you and see how many of our words you’ve forgotten,” he remarked.

“ _My tongue is slow, but my ears are sharp_ ,” McCree replied, grinning—he’d practiced that phrase until it was second nature.

“ _I’m sure,_ ” John chuckled. “I’m afraid everyone’s tongues are growing slow these days. Uncle Robert was glad you wanted to learn.”

“Be sure t’ pass him my regards fer the words,” McCree added, toweling off his hand and tipping his hat. He was always sure to send his thanks when he couldn’t visit Diyi Castillo himself.

“I’ll be heading back to visit him this weekend, if that’s alright,”John continued, earning a grin and a nod from McCree.

“How’s the ol’ man doin?” McCree asked.

“Spry but stubborn, as usual,” John answered, his tongue growing serious. “I think he’ll want to hear about recent events here on the ranch.”

“Don’t he got better things t’ worry over?” McCree asked, tossing the damp rag over the edge of the basin.

“You’re family. It’s his job to worry,” John smiled, though the expression was tinged with concern. “I’ll see you Monday, sir.”

“Well, don’t go rushin’ back here on account o’ me,” McCree said, leaning against the nearby pen, “Ain’t he, what, 90? Take yer time.”

“Don’t be surprised if I take you up on that,” John laughed.

* * *

“McCrees have returned to the ranch.” John stated, watching the sunset with only a pretense of comfort and relaxation.

“Of course he was brought back. There was a tornado last week,” Robert observed. The cadence of the old man’s words matched the rocking of his chair.

“Serpents came, too.”

Silence reigned—even the rocking chair stopped off-beat.

“Serpents, huh.”

“Indigoes. He knows they shouldn’t be there, but he’s allowing them…I know you’re not going to tell me McCree is a witch, right?” John asked, daring to look at Robert for a moment.

“No, he’s just an idiot.” He gave a weary sigh, rubbing at his eyelids. Even witches didn’t consort with serpents. “They wouldn’t have been brought here if this wasn’t where they needed to be. The tornado brings things back to where they belong…”

“Indigoes don’t belong in the panhandle.”

“Perhaps these ones do. Wait and see…” he said, beginning to rock again, “Wait and see.”


End file.
